Around the Block
by mentalagent13
Summary: He watches her walk past his apartment complex for the third time that night. Usually, he lets her walk until she calls up for him to open the front door. Tonight is different. Rated T just in case.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **It has been a crazy month or so. I just want to thank everyone that has read and commented or favorited or anything else. I really loved getting random e-mails about it. You are all great! Anyway, this story takes place after 8x23, but there are not really any specific tags. Thanks for reading and please leave a review on the way out.

**Disclaimer:** I can say that I officially own absolutely nothing pertaining to NCIS.

**Around the Block**

He watches her walk past his apartment complex for the third time that night. Usually, he lets her walk until she calls up for him to open the front door. She always comes up when she wants to; there was never any point in rushing her. Tonight is different. Tonight he wants to sleep uninterrupted. The sooner he can get her inside and settle her mind the quicker he can sleep. Of course, she will end up on his couch once again, but she refuses to take the bed. One night she slept on the floor when he took the couch.

He takes the elevator down to the entrance way of his building. He exists and stands in the shadows underneath the canopy. He purposefully hides his face from the sidewalk choosing to stare in the same direction she is. She won't notice him as quickly if she is not looking at him for more than half a block. He knows because she hasn't changed her rapid pace, or switched directions once. He feels a bit like a stalker, but he can't help it. He looks for her every night since the first time she did it.

He sighs and settles in to wait. Couples pass talking and laughing with each other. A mother comforting her cranky baby follows later. Young and old pass him by while he waits to see the figure he recognizes. He hears a pair of loudly clicking heels approach. He tries to make himself invisible. The last thing he needs is her seeing him chatting with a call girl. The heels click by and he finally sees the coat he has been looking for.

"Ziva!" he calls. She turns to face him her right hand on her hip. Thankfully, she didn't actually pull the gun out of its holster or he might have had some ugly damage control to fix. He settles for chuckling inwardly at the realization that he expected that reaction even though she knows exactly where she is. He puts a serious expression back on his face before stepping out of the shadows with his hands raised.

"It's just me, Ziva," he assures. She lowers her arm, turns around, and _continues walking_. His jaw drops. It takes him a few seconds too long to regain his composure. By the time he considers calling her name again she has rounded the corner. He decides to wait another 20 minutes to see if she'll come back around. This time he places himself on the opposite side of the entrance so he can see her coming. A mere 15 minutes later she passes by again.

"Ziva!" he yells. She doesn't spare him a second glance or slow down. He grumbles under his breath. If she really wants to walk around the block all night he's not going to stop her. He heads for the front door of his building only to stop with his hand on the handle. He sighs and steps back into his original shadow. He'll give her one more try before he goes inside. After that, he's not letting her in no matter how many times she calls.

"Go to sleep, Tony," she says the next time she passes. He's ready this time though and matches her stride step for step. She has set a grueling pace for walking a city block, but it doesn't stop him. He's only planning on doing one; two at most.

"While you do circles around my block all night?" he asks. He can't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. She knows he won't sleep knowing that she is walking. He might not have been raised to be a gentleman, but he learned. She didn't appreciate all the time. No woman would. Of course that didn't stop him.

"I'm not coming up tonight," she says matter-of-factly. Her eyes have yet to stray from their position forward. He hasn't seen her face properly yet either. It was shrouded in shadow by the streetlight the first time. They continue their journey in silence until they reach the front of his building once again. She comes to an abrupt stop, and he continues past her.

"Go upstairs, Tony," she says through clenched teeth. He hands ball into fists. He takes it all in, but against his better judgment ignores it. He shouldn't want to light the fire, but he is anxious for the explosion. Tonight is as good a night as any.

**A/N: **I'll post the second chapter depending on if I get positive reviews or not. I have been lacking in the review department and I am beginning to think it's because my writing had gotten worse…


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Originally, this was a massively huge one-shot. I decided to break it up just for my own sanity. I can't type the whole thing in one sitting, so you get chapters! I'm excited…are you? Leave a review on the way out, please!

**Disclaimer:** You're hilarious if you think I own it.

**Chapter 2**

"No," he says evenly. He tenses waiting for the moment she explodes. He expects it to be immediate. When she doesn't he knows he's in deeper than he originally anticipated. If he's not careful he could end up on the ground…bleeding. When it finally does happen it is loud. Loud is good, he can deal with loud. At least she hasn't gotten to physical yet; physical is not good.

"You are tired, Tony! You can barely keep your eyes open! Go. In. Side," she seethes. At least she is concentrating on him. When she centers her anger inward it is much worse.

"Your concern is noted and appreciated, but we both need sleep, Ziva," he offers with a straight face. He discovers that some sort of expression might have been better because she throws her hands up in disgust and walks away from him. She begins to mutter in a language that he can't identify. When she switches to Hebrew, then to Spanish he knows he is in trouble. She is cursing him without letting him hear it. He can't decide if he should be honored that she cares that much, or scared that she can curse him in that many languages.

The longer she rants the more frustrated he feels. For once he wishes she would actually use English so that he can be part of the argument. Standing and listening to her is not as much fun as it used to be. After the first minute or so it begins to become tiring. She looks right at him when she says something in audible Hebrew. His brows furrow and her mouth closes. It seems she has finally run out of words.

"You done?" he asks. He gives her his best annoyed/pissed off expression. She mirrors it right back at him her chest heaving. Something really has her irritated. He wishes he knew what it was so she could stop torturing them both. Her breaths even out slightly before picking back up.

"No," she spits at him.

"Well then, by all means continue," he says. He leans back so that his back can be supported against the wall. It will relieve some of the pressure and tension for a few precious minutes so he is not completely crippled tomorrow. She knows that standing outside when he is this tired is not good for his back. He doesn't care; if he's in pain in the morning it is her fault. Whether she accepts that or not is a different story.

She stares at him; mouth agape for a total of ten seconds before she moves. She storms up to him quicker than a summer shower. Her features contort into a mask of heated rage. He thanks whoever may be listening for the heated rage. Uncontainable rage and Ziva always ends in bodily harm; he would know. He's seen her at her worst. He unconsciously tenses for a physical attack that never comes; his eyes even close.

Instead, she thrusts her clenched fists in her pockets and closes the final gap between them. She is looking up at him when he finally opens his eyes. Her smaller stature doesn't seem that small when he is looking into her angry eyes. She blinks a few times, but neither moves. He resists the urge to say anything too curious as to why she is responding this way.

He finds himself taken aback when her eyes close and her head finds its way onto his chest. He doesn't move at first too confused by this rapid turn of events. She only does this when she has absolutely no other options and she is _crying_. There are no tears in her eyes and she is just downright _angry_. He is positive he didn't see any angry tears either. He decides to do what any man would in this situation. He carefully wraps an arm around her; not tight enough to pull her closer, but not so loose that it hangs at her waist. No, he is simply making sure she stays in place as long as she deems necessary.

Her body remains tense until she tucks her head underneath his chin. He has no choice but to rest his chin on top of her head. He doesn't know if she constructed this herself, or if she is just going with the moment. He can feel her relax at an agonizingly slow pace. He isn't going to be able to stay out here as long as it's going to take for her to unwind. He is stuck. He doesn't want to move and unnerve her, sending her back to the mindset she was in previously. Yet, they can't just stand out here all night.

In a moment of clarity, he chooses his course of action. He releases her and moves to the side. She tenses again, but her eyes follow his movement. Her hands remain tucked away in her coat pockets. He does the same with his. He has no idea what else he is going to do with them.

"Let's go inside," he whispers into the air. She nods, but it is unsure. She steps closer to him once more before he can turn around. They are toe to toe and he isn't sure what to think. She takes a deep breath and walks past him toward his door. He follows having no other options. Looks like she's coming up anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Chapter 3, leave a review with your thoughts as you leave please. Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer:** If I owned any of the characters they would not be nearly as cool.

**Chapter 3**

He follows her into his apartment because in his mind he has to hold the door for her. She gives him a half-hearted smile in thanks. He isn't sure what he is supposed to do or say next, so he offers to take her coat. She hesitates. He can't seem to fathom why. It is only after she gives it to him and he hangs it up in the hall closet that he realizes why. Her hands have been in her coat pockets the entire time. They now hang awkwardly at her sides.

He moves toward her slowly, but he leaves an arm's length of space between them. He begins to ask her if she wants anything. He never gets a sound out. He soon discovers that they are in the same position as they were outside minus their coats. The only difference is the place. This time they happen to be standing in the middle of his living room. He is yet again standing.

He finds that his arms have moved of their own accord. They have wrapped themselves around her shoulders holding her in place. Her arms cautiously settle at his waist. He silently berates himself for not recognizing the fact that his partner is searching for something; something she believes he has the answer to. He tries to concentrate on what that thing could be, but he keeps getting distracted by the feel of her breath across his neck. When he shifts positions she only tucks her head under his chin farther.

"Umm…Ziva?" he hesitates.

"Hmmmmm?" she hums. He jumps out of her reach when he_ feels_ her response as well as hears it. Her expression rapidly changes from one of contentment to one of hurt and confusion. He stares at her dumbly. He doesn't know how to make the situation better. She waits for an explanation her shoulders falling farther with every passing second. He can't let her continue like this. It's killing him.

"I…I wasn't expecting that," he tries lamely. Her face contorts into one of amusement as her eyes travel south. He looks down only to slap his palm to his forehead. Only she could take all the confused tension in the room and twist it into a different kind while simultaneously turning it up. He can't think when he is around her; does she really have to make it hard to breathe also?

"The hug, Ziva," he says exasperated.

"Oh," she says in a small voice. Her demeanor deflates and they are back to square one. If he thought it was difficult to breathe earlier he is positive he can't now. The woman who always challenged him, always made him think on his feet and kept him on his toes has truly and utterly changed. She looks small, sad, and fragile. _Fragile_. He _hates_ that look on her more than on anyone else. She is not supposed to look that way. She can take care of herself after all.

"Hey," he whispers and takes a sure step toward her, "Ziva, look at me."

Her eyes meet his and he raises an arm in silent invitation. He watches her weighing the benefits and risks before she moves. He tries to be a solid form for her. He has no idea when he was given this role. He doesn't dislike it, but he wishes it was someone else. He isn't absolutely positive he can be what she needs all the time. The want…well that has always been a gray area with them.

"What's the matter, Ziva?" he manages to ask her. Her initial answer is in Hebrew. She is trying to get away with answering in a way that he will not understand. She keeps her face buried in his shirt so she doesn't have to look at him. Her English answer follows a few minutes after the silence has stretched on for far too long.

"I'm tired of being strong all the time, Tony," she whimpers against his shirt. He is careful to keep his body relaxed while his face betrays his shock. First, Ziva has whimpered, _whimpered_. Second, she admitted something he never thought he would hear. She no longer wants to be an impenetrable pillar of strength. This is the one person he thought could never break as though she was hard-wired not to. Turns out, it just took more time than he was expecting. He finds his voice quickly.

"You never had to be," he tells her tenderly. She scoffs as she untangles herself from his embrace. Her arms cross as she begins a rapid pace in his living room. If left to do that for the rest of the night his neighbors below will have an unexpected houseguest. As funny as the mental image is he has to shake it out of his head. What is important right now is in front of him.

"Yes, I did," she finally says. Her voice is strong and determined as if she is stating a fact. "I still do," she adds as an afterthought. Her pace quickens as she avoids his eyes once again. He gives her the space she wants by sitting on the couch and studying the slight stain on his carpet. He idly wonders how to get it out of the carpet completely.

"What changed?" he asks her after some time has passed. She stops pacing and faces him.

"Why did something have to change?" she asks with a sneer. He mustn't have worded the question correctly. Obviously, she took offense. He has to try again quickly, or she may shut him out completely. That is not an option in this battle.

"No one ever told you that you have to be strong," he amends.

"My father does," she says. She has not moved since she stopped pacing. He pats the seat beside him on the couch. She shakes her head 'no' at first. He raises a persistent eyebrow. She gives him an exaggerated sigh, but sits down. Her chosen seat is as far away from him as possible. At least he got her to sit down. Maybe they can figure something out after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Another chapter! *gasp* This is turning into one of my longest stories to date…

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine…fail.

**Chapter 4**

"Ziva," he says softly. She winces at the tone his voice carries. It reminds her of something. What? He has no idea. So, he shuts his mouth and gives his vocal chords a break. He needs to let her decide if she wants to talk. It's easier said than done.

"What changed, Ziva?" he asks again. He can't sit there with her and have her _not_ talk. She turns to face him. His eyes meet sad brown ones. Her eyes have always been the window to her soul. He doesn't know if anyone else has the ability to read her the way he does. What he sees behind her rapidly crashing façade scares him more than anything else.

She is confused. She is distraught. He wants to stop questioning her; to stop pushing all her buttons correctly, but he can't. Deep down somewhere she _needs _this. Her energy has nowhere to go anymore. Walking is her way of dissipating unwanted energy. Her morning run serves the same purpose, but walking at night is much more dangerous. If she is walking she can't get whatever is bothering her out of her head.

Coming to him happened by accident. He had been taking an evening jog through the park when he had passed her. The look on her face had him slowing down and matching her stride. They didn't speak, but she calmed slowly. He offered to take her back to his place once she admitted she had walked the twenty blocks to the park. Once inside she had told him the first phase of a story from her childhood. It wasn't until days later that she told him the second part and spent the night on his floor and he on his couch. He had slowly learned how to gain the answers he seeks. Pushing her too far results in anger, but not pushing her enough yields nothing.

"Everything? Nothing? I do not know, Tony. One day I just felt…different," she tries to explain. Usually, they are on the same page. Today they are in different books. He half-heartedly attempts to hide the fact that he is confused. Even in the state that she is in he knows that she can see it. Irritation is written all over her face. He just wants to know what or who she is irritated with. He can better defend her if he knows what she is up against. Protecting her from her own demons is the only way he can protect her.

She withdraws into herself more. It shows in the way she curls slightly into the couch. Her eyes will no longer meet his. He sighs and leans back. His back thanks him as it comes to rest against the soft material of the couch. He keeps his eyes focused on her. She only withdraws further. He grits his teeth to keep from screaming his frustration to the rooftops.

"What else," he asks once he has calmed significantly. His head makes contact with the top of the couch. It is better to look at the ceiling rather than her. The silence stretches for what feels like eons. He begins to get irritated again. Why did he bother forcing her up here anyway?

He hears the rustle of the cushions as she shifts her weight. He expects to hear the door open. Instead, he feels her sit next to him. Her breathing has returned to its normal steady pace. He ignores it all. He can't ignore her when he feels her palm make contact with his thigh. That one gesture forces him to raise his head and meet her eyes. They have not changed. This distresses him more than he wants to admit.

"It is hard to explain, Tony," she says. They take in each other for a moment before her head finds its resting spot on his chest. He doesn't move. He can't. She is being elusive. She shifts closer to him in a movement that begs him to return her touch. He holds back for another moment. He hears her breathing become shaky and nervous. Then, and only then, does he allow her a taste of what she so desperately craves. He puts one arm around her shoulders to hold her in place.

"Try, Ziva," he pleads. Her head moves in the telltale sign that she is weighing her options. He tenses, which tightens his grip on her shoulders. She accepts it with a familiarity that stuns him. He moves slightly toward the arm of the couch away from her. She fluidly follows his movement so she is able to stay in place. He isn't quite sure what he should think about it.

She murmurs something, but it is muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He moves his arm to draw small circles on her back. He has to keep them light or they will irritate her scars. Learning the motion was easy. Hearing the story why he had to do it that way was much more difficult, but it was worth it. She has always preferred physical contact to reassuring words.

"I have changed, Tony," she whispers louder. His head snaps up. Shock and surprise are written all over his face. His eyes search for hers. She can't seem to bring her head up. Her face is firmly buried in his shirt. This small form is a stark contrast to the large presence she exhibited a mere half hour before.

"What'd you say, Ziva?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Another chapter for all you loyal fans. I must now admit that Ziva seems a bit OOC, but you make the call. I tried my best to keep it close. Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer:** I still own absolutely nothing.

**Chapter 5**

"I have changed, Tony," she states with more authority. He meets her eyes and he smiles. She returns it cautiously.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," he tells her. Her smile gets a bit brighter. He can't keep his face still. His smile gets a little bigger too.

"No, it is not," she agrees and gets up. He isn't sure what will happen next. She moves toward the closet that contains her coat with authority. Leave it to Ziva to figure something out and then go about her life as usual. She is like a clock; always ticking, always moving. She can never be still enough to take in the moment.

"Ziva?" he questions when she stops, her hand on the handle to the door. She stays like that for longer than he expected. Her head turns and their eyes meet once again. He sees the confidence that usually lies there. She can't hide the fact that while she has changed there is an air about her that stands to be reckoned with. There will be no pushing her into anything.

"What changed, Ziva?" he asks. He knows that as soon as he asks the question it was the wrong one. She did not want to discuss reasons tonight. She had never wanted to actually say anything. An hour ago, all she had wanted to do was walk around his apartment. He sighs deeply. The night has only just begun.

The closet door opens and her coat is on before he moves from his seat on the couch. She gives him her very best threatening glare, which is one of the most threatening he has ever seen. At any other time it might have set off alarm bells loud enough for him to hear. Instead, they are only a distant sound somewhere in the back of his mind. He has to keep her here.

He moves slowly, keeping her in his field of vision as he leisurely makes his way to the door. She catches what he is doing and bolts for it a second before he does. Thankfully, he has a step on her and their hands make contact with the door at the same time. He has the handle; she has the hinges. He's taking no chances, though. Getting her away from the door is the priority.

"I didn't realize I was a prisoner," she growls. He swallows as her eyes turn molten with the angry fire behind them. Reasoning with her may not be his best option, but it's all he's got.

"Ziva…why don't we sit back down?" he hesitates.

"I would like to go home, Tony," she says evenly. That scares him more than her yelling. Yelling equals emotion. He can deal with emotion. He doesn't necessarily like it, but he can. When she offers no outward emotion he knows he is in trouble.

"Ziva…"

"Tony!" she interrupts. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He has to choose. He looks her in the eye. All he sees is anger. He shakes his head. He doesn't want to be the bad guy. He knows what he has to do. Slowly, he clicks the lock to the unlocked position. His hands leave the door and he backs off of it. Letting her go is harder than he anticipated, but he will do it.

She opens the door and walks out. Her coat follows her as she flips it behind her. He watches her back walk away for what feels like the hundredth time that night. She makes the turn on the stairs and she is gone. He isn't sure how to feel. This is the first time she has ever left his apartment angry. Usually, she comes in angry and leaves with a different outlook on the situation. More often than not, she stays the night.

He closes the door and rubs his forehead between his thumb and forefinger. He is tempted to go to the window and watch her walk away. He can't. There is something so final about the idea of her hailing a cab and heading back to her place without a good-bye, or at the very least a smile. He is tired, but sleep will most likely not come any time soon.

The closet hangs open. He meanders over to it just to give him something to do. His body is tired, so tired. His mind is not. The door seals with an audible _click_. There is a kind of finality in the sound, as if the door has closed on something. He stares at the door memorizing the grain in the wood. The design is familiar and unique. He turns around to finally go to bed.

He is shocked to see her leaning against his front door.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **A sixth chapter! I really do appreciate all the reviews. Thanks! If you have any suggestions please feel free to tell me.

**Disclaimer:** Still not a penny of it mine.

**Chapter 6**

She wasn't looking at him when he turned around so it was easy to swallow his gasp and act normal. Her eyes are focused on the carpet. One leg rests against the door, her knee jutting out at an intense angle. Her arms are crossed and her hair obscures her face from view. He does the only thing he can think to do.

"Can I take your coat?" he asks. It's odd how she shrugs out of it and gives it to him without a glance in his direction. Her arm stretches to offer the garment, but the rest of her body remains the same. She makes no sound as he takes it and opens the closet once again. Her coat is placed on the same hanger it rested on moments ago. He puts it in the closet next to his. It seems natural.

"Ziva?"

"Tony…" she begins, pauses, and takes a deep breath, "I do not know why exactly I came back. Can we please skip that part?" Her eyes finally rise to meet his. There is a subdued pleading in them. He nods in agreement.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her foot hits the ground and her head comes up. She walks back toward the couch. He takes in the stiffness in her gait. Her hands are fisted once again in an attempt to hide whatever emotion has come over her. She settles once again, this time on the middle cushion of his large couch. He is tempted to offer to watch a movie, but now doesn't seem to be the best time.

He walks over to her with a determined stride. He has to get her to either say something, or stay the night. He needs to sleep. It's becoming a necessity. Falling asleep while she is talking is not an option. So, he has to play the part of an understanding and open man. She has to either trust him or not. Those are her options. She has no others.

He stands in front of her. He needs her to look at him during this conversation. He will better be able to read what she wants to say and prompt her to say it. This is the most difficult part of the night. Ziva is by nature…silent. She broods and thinks before she says anything. It will take some unique questions and body language to get her to say something. Naturally, he starts off with difficult.

"Why were you walking, Ziva?" he asks. Her head snaps up and her eyes meet his. The burning nature of them has turned to smoldering, but it won't take much to heat them up. He should know better than to play with fire. He usually ends up crispy. New question.

"What brought you here?"

"It is where I always come, Tony. I have been here before," she huffs. He raises an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes and they settle on him with a calculating gaze. He decides to bite the bullet and sit on the coffee table in front of her. It leaves him with a limited escape route and his knees are very close to her, but he has to.

"Why. Were. You. Walking?" he asks again taking the time to spell each word out.

"Tony…" she starts. Her tone is borderline disgusted. She is tired of all the questioning. She doesn't want him to probe; to know what is on her mind. She gives him a look of absolute hatred. She knows he can read her. She wants to drag this out. Her response says it all. "I have changed. That is all, Tony," she tells him her voice laced with malice.

"How?" he asks carefully. He makes sure this is no force to his tone. He likes his body intact.

"It is difficult to explain," she tries. She releases a sigh directly afterward. Her frustration is not with him per say, but with the situation itself. She wants to leave the topic. Yet, she is unwilling to change it herself. He catches a concerned glint in her eye. It is not outward concern, but inward. She is not sure she knows how to react to this new person she has become. He keeps his face neutral. It is a struggle. Pity will not do.

"Ziva…"

"I cannot simply look at a situation and assess it without considering the people involved," she blurts out. Her hands fly into the air and she stands up. He follows her as she walks back to hallway only to turn around and come inches from running into him. Her head lifts so she can better look at him. He lets her pass after only a few seconds. Throwing herself on the couch in frustration is not something he thought he'd ever see. She pulls out the gun on her ankle and studies it. A towel appears from underneath the table where he has kept it just for her. The gun is apart mere seconds later by her steady hands.

"What kind of situation?" he asks. He takes the seat next to her. She is concentrating on the gun, but he can sense her hesitation. She goes through a few motions he recognizes before she places everything on the towel she laid out to protect his coffee table.

"Situations that result in injury or death," she explains, "situations at work."

"That bothers you?" he asks. He can't keep the confusion out of his voice. He has always considered valuing human life to be one of the most important things anyone could have. Morality should be treasured.

"Yes, Tony! I see something and I react. Now, my reaction time has become slower. How am I to do my job correctly if I cannot react quickly!" she explodes. They have reached the heart of the matter.

"What do you think about, Ziva?" he wonders aloud. She only stares at him. It seems he has grown a second head in the last few minutes with the way she is looking at him. He gives her a confused expression in return.

"The team," she whispers. A pair of still troubled eyes meet his. She is worried about losing a millisecond in reaction time because she wants to protect the people that are causing her to lose that millisecond. He has no idea how to fix this situation. The problem is; she wants him to fix it.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **I couldn't ask for better reviews and responses to this story. Please continue. I really do appreciate it. I hope you enjoy the next chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own NCIS as sad as that statement is to say every time…

**Chapter 7**

He takes a deep breath in before running his fingers through his hair. She actually offers a smile when his hair remains slightly spiked. He tries to flatten it back down. She shakes her head as she hides the next grin she gives him. She has graciously given him time to think and digest what she has just told him without making him feel uncomfortable and rushed. For that courtesy he is thankful.

"Ziva…" he begins, "I haven't noticed a difference in your reaction time."

"I have," is her easy reply. She uses smooth even strokes over every piece of the weapon on his coffee table. He doesn't know how to respond to her. No one else is even on the same planet that she is in reaction time. Most criminals aren't. Then again, the word _most_ is the important word. She _has_ to be better than everyone. It is her mentality. If she is beaten than in her mind everyone else is at risk. The sad thing is…she's right. She is their _last_ line of defense. "How much of a difference?" he hesitates to ask. She stops what she is doing to really look at him. Her head cocks to the side as she contemplates his question. He can almost see the wheels turning in her head; analyzing everything. He sees the moment she comes to her final conclusion, but she waits to tell him.

"More than I wish to say," she concedes.

"Ziva…" he growls. He doesn't need seconds. He just needs her serious answer as to how much time she has lost. If she would only compare it to something….

"I am almost the same speed as Gibbs,"

…or someone. That definitely was not expected. _He_ is almost as fast as Gibbs in reaction time. Her accuracy hasn't diminished, but her reaction time has slowed by at least a full second. In terms of weapons that is an eternity. It takes markedly less time to actually pull the trigger. It's no wonder she is freaked.

He stands because he has to. His next thought has him agitated. There is only one way for her to gain that precious second back. It is not something he had ever considered before, but what is best for her is best for her. He takes in a breath and begins to pace. Her curious eyes follow his every movement. She will have to leave the team.

No. No. No. NO! He can't do that to her. She needs the team more than he needs a movie. Her life revolves around everyone there. It would be easier to move Mount Everest than to make her leave now. She has suffered too much in her past. Destroying her present will only jeopardize a very promising future. There is much more for her to do. Shutting her down now will only impede the progress she has made emotionally.

That leaves the person she spends the most time with. His mind blanks at the realization of who that person is. He stops mid-stride and stares at her wide-eyed. Is this what she wanted all along? Her eyebrows knit together in an endearing form of confusion. His mouth hangs agape as he considers the truth to that thought.

"Tony?" she asks him. She stands and takes a few cautious steps toward him. Her fingertips make contact with his arm and he jerks away. She can't hide the hurt in her eyes fast enough. He senses her fear of rejection. He releases the breath he had initially been holding and bites down the apology he originally wanted to say. Instead, he offers her his hand.

She takes it cautiously. Her eyes are wary as he leads her back to his couch. She ignores the half assembled gun on the coffee table to turn her full attention to him. He gives her a shaky smile before standing once again.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks. She turns up an eyebrow in amusement.

"Water, Tony. Just water," she says. He nods and almost runs into the kitchen. He has to get away from her to think. The glasses appear in front of him without any recollection of how they got there. Ice clinks in each glass. Water finds its way into them both. He can't recall moving and he knows she never came in the room.

He sighs. She can cause so much stress sometimes. He carries the glasses out into the living room, sits, and places each glass on a coaster. She bought him the coasters. He always used a paper towel, but she pointed out that the table would get wet through the towel anyway. A coaster would prevent any moisture from getting onto the table. He hadn't paid attention to her that day. The next, he had a pack of generic coasters on his desk.

"I know how to help you, Ziva," he finally says.

"How?" she asks generally curious.

"I have to leave."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **So, here it is! The last chapter (add awesome music here). Haha hope you enjoy! P.S. This is my longest story yet. Kudos to those who read and kept me going. This is a treat because it is the longest chapter. Gotta go out with a bang I guess. Please leave a review as you exit.

**Disclaimer: **Own it? Never

**Chapter 8**

"Leave?" she asks. Confusion is evident in her tone. She looks around the room as if making sure they are still in his apartment. Her eyes finally settle on his face. She cocks her head to the side as her eyebrows come together in the classic Ziva look. She straightens in seconds as she dutifully waits for the answer to her question.

"NCIS" he adds. She stands quickly bumping into the coffee table as she does so. Her eyes are wide with shock. Her thoughts had never taken her as far as his. She had been worried about the present; he the future.

"No, Tony. Just…no." she finishes. He looks up from his seat on the couch. He wants to reach for her, but as soon as his hand moves she is across the room. Her back makes contact with the wall his door resides in. She crosses her arms in front of her before releasing a breath of frustration.

"That will not help, Tony," she whispers. She finally raises her head to meet his eyes. The fear and sorrow in her eyes hits him harder than a perp hits the sidewalk. He swallows and has to look away. They both knew that someday they would have to face it. They had never given it a name, a reason, a place, or acknowledgement. They never needed to.

"Ziva…" he starts.

"No," she interrupts, "It. Will. Not. Help." He stares at her blankly for a few minutes before she shrugs. Nothing is spoken between the two for a few long moments. She shifts her weight from foot to foot waiting for him to say something. She offers no explanation of why it will not help. He doesn't push her. The answer may not be one he wants to hear yet.

"Ziva, what do you want to do?" he asks. He is starting to get fed up with her. She wants a solution, but will not accept his. It is now close to two in the morning and he is barely able to think, let alone combat her emotions. He needs for her to figure out something so that he can sleep. She has the insane ability to function for long periods of time without sleep. He can't.

"You cannot leave. If anyone has to leave it should be me," she says quietly. Her eyes meet his with sheer determination. She has made her decision. This will be how _she_ wants to fix this. Ziva is selfless to a fault. She will force herself to take the brunt of anything mainly because she can.

"No, Ziva. No…we have to think of something else," he finally says. He looks up to find her moving toward him. She finds a seat next to him. Her head falls to his shoulder as she curls as close to him as possible. Her eyelids have become heavy with sleep. It is written all over her face. She is tired of all of this.

"You can get it back, Ziva," he whispers to her. She nods in agreement against him. Her eyes have closed and no sound escapes past her lips. They both remain still. He listens to the clock tick the seconds away as the tension in her body leaves in an almost painfully slow manner. The last part of her body to relax is the arm she has placed on his chest.

"I only have to accept the differences," she says. Her voice is amplified because of the silence in the room. He turns his head to an uncomfortable position to look at her. Calm brown eyes meet his curious blue. Turns out she just needed to admit that maybe this was okay. Her life had initially been spent being the best soldier she could be. Now, she only needs to be herself and protect those she loves to the best of her abilities. She knows she can, and will, get everything she was before back. Her skills have a purpose once again. She gives him a small smile before settling back down against him. He lets his breath out in a huff.

"As much as I am enjoying this, Ziva, I really need to go to bed. Sleeping like this will kill my back. You can either stay here, or join me," he offers without really considering the implications of that offer. He stands and moves toward his room. The only thing he really intends to think about is the comfort of his bed. He imagines the softness of it as he walks the length of the hall to his bedroom. Her presence behind him isn't detected until he crosses the threshold of his bedroom. Then, it is amplified ten-fold.

"Ziva?" he asks generally confused. He turns to face her; his confusion is easily readable on his face. His one eyebrow has risen, seemingly of its own accord.

"You offered," she states. His mouth hangs open for a second before she lifts a hand to close it. A small smile graces her lips. He shakes his head and mumbles incoherently as he moves toward his dresser. He pulls out a shirt. It's too small for him, but that doesn't matter. He doesn't wear a shirt to bed anyway. His arm extends. She takes the garment from him…and changes into it in front of him. He visibly swallows as she pulls back the covers and settles into bed.

"You…" is all he manages. She chuckles against his pillow.

"I what, Tony?" she asks.

"Never mind," he tells her as he strips down to his boxers. Since she had the audacity to change in front of him, he has to rise and meet her challenge. He makes sure he holds eye contact with her the entire time he does it. He is half way into bed before he actually considers the implications behind everything they are doing. He stops mid-way, holding the sheet high into the air. She chuckles and motions for him to lie down. Once he is settled her hand drifts to find his under the blankets. She squeezes his fingers lightly.

"I am adjusting to emotion, Tony. It is not easy," she tells him. He stares at the ceiling trying to come up with a response. He doesn't have one. So, she curls up closer to him. Her added body heat makes him a little warm, but he can't tell her that. She looks too comfortable. Her body begins to relax much faster than it had out in the living room on the couch.

"If you leave I will lose everything I have gained," she says sleepily against his shoulder, " I cannot go back, Tony." Her breathing evens out almost instantly. She has fallen asleep. He chuckles and wraps his arm around her. In her sleep she shifts to better accommodate his touch. That motion surprises him. Even in sleep she has the ability to predict and move in sync with him. When he tries to remove his arm she makes a slight sound of protest. Her hands move to grip his arm above her head. He puts his arm back where it was before. There's no point in waking her if he doesn't have to.

He settles in for the night to get his three hours of sleep. He shifts so that his arm won't fall asleep while they are sleeping. He manages to get most of her weight off of his arm by sliding it under her neck. Her head moves down slightly following his arm. His chin finds a resting place on top of her head. He pulls her closer and adds his second arm to the mix around her waist. She takes in a breath, proving that he has woken her. He tenses.

"Don't move," she mutters against his chest this time. She is asleep again in seconds. He smiles and allows himself to fall into the land of dreams.


End file.
